The Last of the Real Ones
by Beguile
Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil instead.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: I promised myself after finishing It Takes a Village that I would take a serious break from writing Frank & Matt h/c. Village covered so much ground, and I didn't want to repeat myself. I wanted to write something different.

Then Marvel dropped the teasers for Daredevil season 3, along with a whole bunch of terrifying info about how Matt starts the season, and I couldn't get back to writing Frank fast enough. What I initially worried would be too similar ended up being very different. This isn't any Matt I've ever written before. And yet it also feels very much like Matt? Does that make sense?

Readers, dear Readers, it's good to be back, even though I've returned to a very different world. Please, enjoy!

* * *

The Last of the Real Ones

-One-

He knows Red ain't dead: they didn't find a body, and hell if they think a falling building could do what the rest of the fucking city couldn't. Closest that kid has ever come to dying is the bullet Frank put between his eyes the night they met, and a fat load of good that round did.

No surprise, then, when the man in black starts showing up in stories from the Emergency Room. When _The Bulletin_ dedicates a front page to people's shitty cell phone photos of a shadow vaguely shaped liked a man slinking around alleyways and away from streetlamps. Frank doesn't bother with any of it. Devil's gonna do what the Devil's gonna do, and while it's shitty for Karen, who knows Murdock is out there but hasn't heard from him, no good's gonna come from chasing down a man who don't want to be found. Can't help those who don't wanna help themselves. 'sides, it looks like Red needs more help than any one person can provide.

It's when the shooter shows up that shit changes. Hell of a shot, this new guy. Takes out targets with a skill that Frank's not used to seeing from anyone but himself. He tracks the guy, counts the kills, makes notes. Ends up finding a spatter of blood that don't make sense. No corpse to match, and this guy doesn't let people live. Gotta be quick to dodge a round from his gun. Dumb enough not to wear a helmet, too: only a head shot bleeds that much.

Quick and dumb? Sounds like Red. Frank waits for the streets to go quiet for confirmation, but the Devil's spotted again that night, and the night after, and the night after that. And with each spotting, it's becoming more and more amateur hour. Frank puts a bullet in one guy who swears he sank a knife into the Devil's side; he beats down another guy who does an impersonation of the Devil staggering dumbly during a recent fight.

He stops tracking the mystery sniper; he'll deal with that asshole later. Frank starts putting the pieces together on the Devil's location. He calls in a favour from Micro, but the Devil's gone off-grid. He lives in blood spatter and word on the street and leaves pieces of himself all over town.

Frank eventually finds him in a fight that ends worse than it should. Devil gets a gun to the head, and he holds that position too long, long enough that Frank almost blows his cover to intervene. The gunman ends up with a broken hand and a fractured skull, and as he follows the Devil from the fight, Frank is finds the fucker still has a pulse for him to steal.

The Devil weaves a clumsy path to – Jesus fucking Christ – an abandoned, derelict church. Fuck, Red. Actually: "Fuck me." Frank really ought to have seen this one coming.

Red comes and goes via the roof. Frank slips through the chain-link fence and makes quick work of the padlock and chains on the back door. He enters to two sets of steps. Devil lives downstairs, but as if the metaphor isn't obvious enough, there's blood leading that way. Smears on the wall from where Red needed to guide himself. Footprints descending dazedly, sloppily. Frank tracks them with his gaze knowing better than to follow them without checking for traps.

There aren't any. No trip-lines or alarms. Frank puts a foot on the first step. A long, loud creak echoes through the recesses of the church.

Fuck.

No point in being stealthy now. Frank thunders down the steps into a storeroom. He busts open the obvious fake wall on the far side to reveal a darkened stone chamber. Moonlight streams through the window to barely reveal black patches of blood on the floor and walls. A mattress made out of old coats. A punching bag, snarls of gore-clotted rope, a rosary.

Frank yanks the string under the bare bulb dangling in the centre of the room. The light sways, bouncing from wall to wall. Light to dark, dark to light. Everything has to be a fucking symbol for the kid, don't it?

Red's vanished into thin air, it seems, but he haunts the room, creeping over the back of Frank's neck, setting his hair on end, shooting goosebumps up and down his arms. There's nowhere to go except into the stonework. Room's got no rafters, no furniture, nowhere to hide. Got darkness as his ally, and a hole for him to crawl through, and Frank backtracks. He heads back for the storeroom.

The fight is waiting for him. Frank takes a hard knock to the face and ends up back in the Devil's hovel. Light swings away from the doorway, letting the Devil into the room sight unseen. There's the dull thwack of a weapon loosed on the air. The bulb shatters. Frank is plunged into darkness.

He kicks himself upright, just in time for the first volley of punches. They're bare-knuckle boxing each other, and Red's faster, meaner, dirtier. Clawed out of his fucking grave and will claw his way straight through Frank if he has to. Frank has no choice but to go hard. Red makes like a killer with all his head shots and gut punches, his non-stop barrage of hits.

Frank's eyes readjust to the moonlight, revealing the blood draining out of Red's nose, over his lips. Looks like a fucking vampire, but he's feeding on himself. He doesn't block even one of Frank's punches; shit, he opens himself up, gives himself straight over to the blows, to the impact.

"Red." The name doesn't register.

Frank tries again: "Red, it's me."

The Devil lays into him harder than before

Frank tackles him. Sends him straight into the wall. Shit, maybe the kid doesn't recognize him. Maybe that building knocked more out of him than his willingness to wear body armour. "Fuck, Red – it's _me._ " Frank grapples with him, trying to get him in a lock; Red stubbornly refuses to be tied down. He thrashes wildly, recklessly, tossing his head into the wall as he does.

He springs out of Frank's grasp, staggering. He turns back to the fight; Frank kicks him down. Red isn't on the floor for long. He jumps back up, whipping away. He makes a sound, something like a growl, the weight shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Then he turns some more, away from Frank, and he stays that way long enough for his breath to start coming in short bursts.

Frank rises. He scrapes a boot along the floor. Red catches the movement, but he can't seem to track it. He twists his black-clad head around until his face is visible just over his shoulder. Until Frank can see his breath catching on his bloody lips, till he can see the fear written in the lower half of his face.

Frank gets a good look at the smirk as it makes a triumphant return. Red lets out a yell, heaving his fist up overhead. He comes back with a vengeance. Grunting and growling and roaring. That blow to the head knocked the last bit of Red out of him so that only the devil remains.

They tumble across the floor, Frank trying to pin the kid down. The Devil refuses. He rolls, flips back, puts himself right in Frank's grasp only to slip right out again. He appears behind Frank, knocking Frank's legs out from under him, and Frank falls neck-first into one of those bloody lengths of rope the Devil grabbed from the floor.

"RED." It's the last one word Frank says before the rope closes down on his throat. He chokes, his next breath catching. He thrashes wildly, trying to get back on his feet. He's yanked back onto his heels, the Devil hanging him with his own two hands. The moonlight flickers, blackening around the edges, the darkness closing on him.

The Devil's bloody breath sweeps across Frank's ear. His words cold clock Frank's ear drum. "You really shouldn't have come here, Frank."

Frank lets out a soundless roar and reaches, gripping the Devil by the back of the neck. The Devil responds by yanking the rope through Frank's windpipe into his brainstem. Then he twists, hard, swinging Frank's head straight into the wall.

* * *

Happy reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: I was originally planning this to be three chapters, but I have had such a wonderful time writing Frank and Curt (from _The Punisher_ series). It's a completely different dynamic than what I'm used to! And it provided such a great contrast to the darkness of the previous chapter (and the darkness that's to come)!

Readers, lovely Readers, thank you so much for giving this fic a chance. I hope you enjoy the continuation!

* * *

Two

Frank comes to on the floor, head pounding. Pool of blood under his face. He unsticks himself and rises, taking stock. Rope burn on his neck, stinging heat where his head impacted with the wall; nose and mouth caked with blood, but thankfully, nothing's broken. The usual chorus of groans and pops follow as he stands.

Sunlight breaks through the narrow windows above him. The room really looks like a prison cell now, warmed as it is by the thin glimpses of morning. Frank grips the wall as he staggers towards the next room, back to the dark.

He makes a sweep of the place while his head stops spinning and isn't at all surprised to find Red's long gone. Church is back to being empty. Frank doublechecks the hiding spots – the crawlspaces, the rafters, the shadows - before hunkering down in one of the pews upstairs. Blood sloshes around inside his skull. Dawn pierces through the stained glass windows straight into his eyes. He's gonna puke if he keeps walking around.

The Devil'll turn up. Night's coming; he's gonna hit the streets again. Didn't take a break after getting stabbed, so he sure as shit isn't gonna take a break now. The dumbass is just looking to get got. And what the hell was that shit last night, groaning and moaning and walking away before swinging that lower cut? Did something similar that night with Grotto at the stake-out after crashing through that window. After taking a bullet to the head.

Frank scrubs a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the bloody snarls of his curls. Shower'd be good. Shave would be nice, too, but the beard lets him walk around in the open, his mangled mug on display, without everybody thinking he's about to blow shit up. Doesn't usually care much about the weird looks, but Frank wants the cover. This shit with the Devil is personal. Best to play as Pete Castiglione for now.

He takes out his cell and stares into the screen, apps blurring before his eyes. He hits at the Phone icon and scrolls through his meager contacts before striking twice, dialing.

Curt answers on the second ring. "It's not even eight in the morning, Frank."

"Been a busy night." Frank lifts his gaze from the floor, vision blurring. He closes his eyes and all he sees is red. "You got some time today?"

Suspicion fizzles from Curt's end of the line, but still, he answers, "Yeah, I got time. What do you need?"

* * *

Curt arrives at the church with a first aid kit and immediately sets to work on Frank's injuries. He opens with questions about the head wound and the rope-shaped bruising before finally getting to, "Just what the hell are you doing here, Frank?"

The words are taking their sweet time emerging from the murk in his head. Frank expected to have an answer formed long before now, but every which way he arranges the sentence, it sounds a hell of lot more stupid than the simple instinct to come here. "There's a new hitter in town. Sniper. Makes shots like you wouldn't believe."

"And you chased him here," Curt says flatly.

Frank bristles. "I chased the guy he's chasing here."

"Who's the guy he's chasing?"

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen," Frank says. And then, because he has nowhere else to go, "He's alive, and he's looking for a fight, and this shooter's gonna give him one."

"Looks like the he gave you one."

"The wall gave me a fight. The Devil was just there for back-up."

Curt flicks off the penlight he's been using to check Frank's vision. "One hell of a wall."

"I'll be fine."

"Right. Gotta get back out there. Hunt down the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"Kid's got the best God damn shot I've ever seen gunning for him. Find him, I find the shooter."

Curt yanks off his gloves. "Cut the bullshit, Frank."

"What bullshit? I came here-"

"It's the sniper you want, you would've been out there looking for the sniper. 'Stead you came here and got your ass handed to you by a dead guy and his wall."

Frank eases away from the pointedness of Curt's stare, his gaze drifting, searching for a better place to land, for an explanation that makes sense. He came to the church because he came to the church and that's all there is to it. Curt expecting a grander explanation than that reminds Frank that there isn't one and makes it harder to think of what the right answer might be. Harder, still, what the believable answer might be.

He settles on, "Devil's reckless. He's gonna get himself killed."

Curt still doesn't buy it: "Reckless people die every day."

"Now who needs to cut the bullshit? Don't act like you don't care."

"I do. But I figured it out a long time ago, Frank: you can't help people who won't help themselves."

Curt's stare gets even more pointed. Frank shirks off the pressure from the look as best he can. "Not here to help people." He reaches for his head, remembers the bruise, drops his hand, and still Curt doesn't let up. "I'm not here to help the Devil."

"Uh huh," Curt says.

Frank turns slightly towards the front of the church, effectively ending the conversation. The sanctuary is aglow with morning. The shadow of a bird passes across the outside of the pane.

"You're really not gonna tell me why you're interested in this guy?" Curt presses.

Frank sighs. He almost wishes that he could, but there's no words. His gut twists, his heart quickens, his head hurts: that's the Devil talking. That's the only language the Devil and him understand. "He's dying and you're a doctor," Frank says. "That good enough for yah?"

Curt nods. "Sure." And then, "For now."

* * *

They stop for breakfast at a greasy spoon of a joint. Curt makes him drink a cup of OJ with some Aspirin before coffee. "Got any other tips for a healthy balanced breakfast, Mom?" Frank grumbles.

"Yeah – don't sass the guy who might be stitching you up later," Curt replies.

"I ain't gonna need stitches." Devil of Hell's Kitchen. That's the one who'll be needing stitches. Hell, the Devil needs stitches already.

They order and get back to business. "So how do you know this guy?" Curt asks, and then, before Frank can feign ignorance, "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Doesn't really seem like your type."

"We go back a bit."

Curt stops him right there: " _We_ go back a bit. Devil of Hell's Kitchen hasn't been around that long. You find him or did he find you?"

"He found me." Which isn't the half of it, but Curt doesn't need to know about the complete study Frank made of the Devil before setting up shop in the city. "Pain in the ass, the Devil. You seen the pictures?"

"Yeah, I've seen the pictures. Devil mask. Body armour."

"Hallowe'en costume."

"Not like painting a skull on a bulletproof vest."

"I know what I'm doing out there."

Curt gives him a look that Frank dodges. He stares out the window instead, blood pounding against the undersides of his cheeks. "I know what I'm doing," he says, quieter this time. "Thought I knew what the kid was doing, too, but…what I fought last night, that isn't the Devil. Not the Devil I know."

He waits for Curt to pick up those precious syllables and run with them, but Curt let's them lie. "How are we gonna find him? I assume you've got a better plan than casing every abandoned church in the city."

"We wait for the sun to go down. That's how I found him last night." Frank takes a long, long pull on his coffee, washing the taste of blood clean out of his mouth. "Police radio's been burning up since he's been back. That and those apps: the bird one? Tweeter?"

"Twitter?"

"Uh huh. And the video one. _YouTube_." Curt beams at him. "What?"

"Tell me you're on Twitter."

"Are you?"

"I will be if Pete Castiglione has an account."

"Not Pete Castiglione."

Curt nods. "No. Pete Castiglione wouldn't need it. But then, why would Frank Castle?"

Frank runs a thumb through his beard. Got a point, Curt does. He hasn't been Frank Castle since getting his clean slate. Yet listening to police scanners, tracking dumbasses on Twitter: he came back to it so quickly and so easily, it's like he never stopped. Like it's what he was made for.

"This shooter, he –"

"Jesus…" Curt sighs.

The coffee is shit. Makes his jaw hurt. Frank chugs back the last of it in two gulps. He focuses on the task at hand: "I can stay away from the small shit. Pretend I don't notice. It twists me up, but I fucking do it. I fucking…" He holds his hands in what looks like white-knuckled prayer until he stops wanting to tear the booth out of the wall. "But this shooter and the Devil. This isn't small potatoes. It's war, yeah? It's war."

Curt casts a look around the diner that comes back to Frank knowing, wise. "Let's go to war, then."

* * *

Happy reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: I haven't produced a chapter this quickly in months. Thank goodness, because I have every intention of finishing this fic before the new season drops on October 19!

Readers, dear Readers, thank you for your time, your kindness, and support. We are at T-minus ten days from the newest – and, by the looks of it, most brutal – season of _Daredevil_ so far. I hope you enjoy. Cheers!

* * *

Three

Watching the city descend into darkness, watching the rooftops transform into the devil's playground, it's uncanny. Hell of a thing – doing something so often it's commonplace only to find that one day, it isn't – that's what hunting for the Devil is. It's usual, but it's also weird as fuck. Frank's got the same eyes and same instincts; he's armed and out to do the same as he's always done. But the Devil. The fucking Devil. Kid took the book and flipped it on its head. Words are in the same order, but they don't make sense.

Curt doesn't help. He takes the information Frank gives him and starts drawing all sorts of conclusions, some of the helpful, lots of them…irrelevant. Curt reads into things that don't matter for the mission. They got more important shit to do than wonder why the Devil hasn't reached out to anyone since coming back from the dead.

They also shouldn't have ditched the rope and chains they were gonna bring. Frank's still seething about that. Curt seems to think that the Devil needs to come nicely or not at all. The hell does he think happened in the church? If talking was gonna work, it would have worked last night. Devil's much more interested in chucking people across rooms and throwing 'em into walls.

Frank says as much into the radio and earns a disappointed hiss of white noise in response. "Yeah, let's wrap the injured guy in chains. Good thinking, Frank."

"Better than the alternative."

"What? Respecting his wishes? That's worse than locking him up in chains."

Frank sees where this is going: "The Devil isn't –"

"How much faster I'd've gotten your ass to group if I–"

The police radio buzzes. Break-in. Four guys on the run. "Gotta go to work, Curt," Frank says. He puts his vehicle in drive and lets the flood of adrenaline drown out the rest of Curt's snarky diatribe. Putting his ass in chains is different. It's _different_. Him and the Devil couldn't be more different.

* * *

Cops have the thieves apprehended by the time Frank reaches the area. Devil put them down for the count and slipped back into shadows. Time to start tracking. Frank gets his ass up high, surveying the city from the Devil's eye-view. There's blood splashed on the brick above where the last thief fell. Aspirated or spat – Devil's bleeding from the mouth or his lung. If it's the latter, he isn't going far.

Curt comes in over the radio, straight into Frank's ear: "They've got sighting down 42nd."

Frank hoofs it, leaping over the rooftops, chasing a phantom. Chasing the idea of a phantom. Devil's willed himself completely invisible save for the bloody handprint he scraped on an access door. The path is coming to an end with an intersection. So what's the plan, then, hero? Swing across like the fucking webslinger in Queens? Nah – Frank spots a blur of shadow taking a hard left down the next block. Devil's clipped his wings, or maybe he doesn't feel so much like flying with all the blood coming out of him.

Instinct takes over, and despite his pace, Frank feels like time is slowing down. He's got eyes on the Devil, but there's somebody else. Whole lot of somebodies, potentially. This area's surrounded by vantage points. Takes a sniper to really see them, to appreciate just how exposed this area of the city is. Frank scans the surrounding rooftops, the windows. Where would he go, if he was hunting the devil with a rifle? The more impossible the location, the better. This shooter can make a bullet go just about wherever he wants.

Frank skids to a halt, eyes back to the shadow of the Devil. Kid's entering a leap across an alley. Frank arms himself, takes aim, and fires before he starts in with one batch, two batch, penny and dime.

The Devil's struck. He flops out of his perfectly executed flip like he's hit a wall, midair, before falling into the alley. He's still in view when another round strikes the brickwork across from him, a round that would have hit the Devil, had Frank not hit him first.

Frank jumps over the edge of the rooftop and out of the sniper's line of sight, holstering his weapon as he does. "I got him," he tells Curt, relaying the location of the alley. Curt can get there, block off the mouth, locking the Devil into the snarl of buildings and laneways in the block. But Frank isn't halfway to the ground when he sees the Devil climbing his way back onto the roof from the alley where he fell. He's taking a path directly back into the sniper's line of sight.

"Fuck, Red!" Frank hisses. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"What is it?" Curt asks.

"I told you we should have brought chains," Frank grumbles, though what the hell chains would have done at this particular moment is a whole lot of nothing. He stops on a fire escape ladder, pulls out his gun, and takes as much time as he can lining up the next shot. Not the ribs, not the head: somewhere that'll hurt, that'll take the Devil down, but won't risk exacerbating one of his existing injuries. "One batch, two batch –" Frank fixes his sights on the Devil's left forearm, "- penny and dime."

He fires; the Devil's hand slips. Frank immediately sets up another shot on the Devil's right arm and fires again, knocking him to the ground.

"He's down," Frank tells Curt, and he drops down too, racing off to meet the Devil in the alley.

* * *

The Devil is crawling out of a dumpster when Frank arrives. He looks like absolute hell and moves like a crushed spider, limbs shaking in odd directions as he marches forward for another fight.

Frank sighs. Fucking hell, not this again. Devil should have gone down a long time ago. Hell, he would've gone down tonight if he kept climbing that wall. "Don't do this, Red," Frank tells him.

The Devil doesn't stop walking towards him. "Fuck you, Frank," he says, launching into an attack. "You shouldn't have come here."

"I shouldn't have come here? I just saved your life, you piece of shit! You could've been decorating the side of this building! That what you want, Red? You want to die?"

Red's only answer is to yell. "I'll take that as a yes," Frank chides him. "Yes-fucking-please. Kill my ass. Should've let that asshole do it. I should've-"

They land on the pavement, exchanging blows: the Devil aiming for Frank's face and stomach, Frank aiming for the Devil's injuries. Anything to slow him down. Rubber bullets clearly weren't enough to knock the fight out of him, another point of contention between him and Curt. Should have brought the tranqs, but no, had to respect the kid's wishes. Better to stick to bare-knuckle brawling the kid. Because that worked so well last time.

The Devil throws him; Frank lands on his feet and comes back, strategizing. He tries to knock the kid's shoulder out of joint, but the Devil dances with him, riding the twist to his arm with ease. He knees Frank twice in the chest, then grapples him, rolls him, grabs him by the neck and shoves him up against the wall.

"STOP."

Frank grips at the kid's arm, fuming. "Oh, now you want him to stop? Now?" Curt draws near the melee, his hands in his pockets. Cool as a fucking cucumber while the edges of Frank's vision blacken and fizzle. "Get him, Curt. Get him off me."

But Curt isn't speaking to him: "You the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

The Devil presses his hand even more tightly into Frank's neck. "I'm Daredevil."

Curt nods. "Frank calls you Red."

"Frank's wrong."

"God damn it, Curt." Frank bashes at the kid's forearm. Kicks at the kid's chest. Chokes. "God damn it –"

Curt ignores him. Focuses on the kid: "You got another name?"

"No."

"Alright, Daredevil." Curt holds out his hands inside of his pockets, palms open in invitation, in politesse. "I'm gonna need you to put Frank down."

The Devil turns to him, the black expanse of his mask one giant, unblinking eye in the dark. "Is he going to leave me alone?"

"Probably not," Curt says, "But if you keep strangling him, I won't either." He holds the silence for a moment before adding, "Look, if you're not gonna kill him, you're just pissing him off, and I'm the one who's gonna have to deal with him. That makes you my problem."

The Devil throws Frank in the pavement, hard enough that he can't retaliate, at least not immediately. He watches fat drops of blood splash in a circle around the Devil's feet, fresh from his knuckles, his arms, his mouth and nose. This close, he can see the tremors wrecking the kid's black clad figure, can see the mess that he's made of himself even without the sniper's bullet splattering him against the wall.

If Curt notices the state of the kid, he gives no indication. "Thanks," he says, hands still in his pockets. "My name's Curtis, by the way."

The Devil smirks, taking another step back. "I don't care what your name –"

He doesn't see it coming. Frank barely does. Curt moves so damn fast – hands out of his pockets, arms stretched out in front of him, than BANG. The gun goes off. A silver dart leaves the chamber and buries itself in the Devil's side. He steps too late, reaches too late, tries to get away too late. All his actions too late. Can sense danger, smell fear, heart whispers hundreds of yards away, but he never picked up on Curt.

He staggers into the dark to Curt at first, gait sloppy. Knees buckling. The drugs'll kick in quicker with him being such a mess, but he's still fighting, and he decides to run rather than hand himself over.

Frank unpeels himself from the pavement and watches the show. "Thought you said no tranqs."

"Not for you," Curt says. He tosses his head towards the Devil of Hell's Kitchen collapsing in the dark. "Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation? Go get him. I'll bring the car around."

The walk to the Devil eases the burning in his neck. Frank arrives to the kid clinging to a fire escape ladder, the strength draining out of his bloody limbs, his mouth hanging slack from his jaw. He breathes raggedly, fighting. Fighting so God damn hard that Frank doesn't stop him from trying: trying to climb the ladder, trying to get his legs under himself, trying to hang on while his hands loosen their grip.

Frank catches the kid when he falls and hangs onto him, marvelling as the same hands that tried to climb away pound against his chest, claw at his shoulders. The Devil tosses himself to the sides, needing to get away as if there's something for him to get away to, as if there's somewhere to go that Frank won't follow. His yells wilt and wither with every passing beat, the rage succumbing despite his efforts, despite it being bigger and badder than the Devil himself. He isn't being torn up by the world; he's being torn up from the inside-out.

"Hell of a thing, isn't it? Hell of a thing, Red," Frank says, and leaves it at that. It's all a hell of a thing. The dying, the coming back, the fighting, and all so you can die again.

The Devil grunts and gives Frank one last push, and then he drops, limp, against Frank's arms. Night resumes its ugly quiet. Blood gleams black over the exposed half of the Devil's face. His breath is bubbles and wheezes, but it keeps coming, one right after a-bloody-nother.

As he heaves the kid up into a lift, Frank feels a strange absence on his chest. Kid wasn't strong enough to do any damage with his last attack. First time ever he didn't leave a bruise.

* * *

Happy reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: …this story might be six chapters long. I'm sorry. I really though that I could keep this succinct, but I am enjoying writing Curt and Frank far too much.

Readers, dear Readers, we are less than a week away from the new season. Thank you so much for coming on this crazy journey with me. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Four

Curt's nothing but arguments: no detaining the kid. No locking him up. And, "We're going to my place."

"Why?" Frank demands.

"Neutral territory," Curt replies.

Frank chuckles. "He's gonna trash your place."

"Only if you give him a reason."

"You shot him."

"You didn't?"

"Only with rubbers. You put him out. He's gonna be pissed when he comes to."

"He's already pissed." Curt shakes his head, mouth pursed in a thin line. His eyes are narrowed as much to see through the dark as to see through the Devil's darkness. "Who is this guy, Frank? What's his deal? Aside for coming back from the dead."

"Ain't that enough?"

"I've seen people come back from the dead. Only seen people this pissed when they've lost something. Your boy, back there," Curt's eyes flit to the rear-view mirror when the Devil can be seen, dead weight in the backseat, "What did he lose?"

That pit in Frank's gut pipes up, Curt finally having put words to it. He tears his eyes away from the image of the Devil's chest rising and falling, but he can't escape that pinched, wet sound of breathing coiling around his shoulders. "Been asking myself that same question." He stares out his window into the blur of passing buildings, his sights instinctively going for the rooftops. "Never was a guy with a lot to lose."

"Doesn't take much," Curt says.

The Devil's wheezing continues from the backseat.

* * *

They drape a coat over the kid. Only thing more dangerous for them than be seen hauling than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is the man he's pretending to be. Frank flops one of the kid's arms over the shoulders and drags him, upright, to Curt's front door. Neighbours are nowhere to be seen. They get inside, and Frank puts the kid on the couch.

The wheezing gets worse.

"Whoa, whoa." Curt finishes locking the door and comes over. He tosses off his coat, rolls up his shirt sleeves, and gets straight to work moving the Devil's head onto the armrest. The elevation lets the kid breathe easier.

"What the hell was that?"

"Probably a punctured lung," Curt says, sliding a pillow under the Devil to elevate him further. He points to a patch of blood along the corner of the kid's lips.

"Can you treat it?"

"I can try. Got stuff in my kit to drain his chest. But if he keeps moving around or fighting or jumping off buildings, that sniper is the least of his concerns."  
"He was there tonight. The sniper," Frank says. "Would've got the kid if I didn't take him down."

"You get eyes on him? The shooter?"

"On his direction, yeah. Lotta windows out there." A beat passes between them that last a little too long. Sure, Curt's doing shit, settling into work. His kit open on the table. Gloves snapping onto his hands. He sits down on the coffee table and reaches for the Devil's mask, but Frank can hear it, loud and clear, that big, bad something that isn't being said. "What?"

"Nothing." Curt peels off the Devil's mask. Upper half of the kid's face is purple and blue. His nose is broken. Curt whips out a penlight and shines it into the Devil's eyes.

He does it twice. Three times. He puts the light down.

"What?" Frank asks.

"He's blind," Curt says.

"Oh." Right, that. "Yeah."

"I shot a blind man."

"I shot him too."

"Yeah, with rubber bullets. I shot him with a tranquilizer."

Frank shrugs. "I cracked a live one off his forehead the night we met."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Curt asks. He lifts the kid's shirt.

And just like that, Frank doesn't know what either of them are supposed to feel. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Curt agrees, the rest of his reaction running deep below the surface. Gotta know him to see it. He releases the hem of the Devil's shirt, trying to maintain composure, but there's a tightness to his expression, a woundedness from the sight of the kid.

"You've seen worse than this," Frank reminds him.

"Yeah," but that comes as no comfort, no reassurance. Worse than the Devil is a compliment for a corpse.

Bruising abounds. Old and new, half-healed and still swelling. Splits in his skin. The Devil's been cut up, chewed up, spit out. A patch of bandages are taped haphazardly at the bottom of his ribs on the left side. The stab wound, Frank guesses, but there's more. There's red, yellow, and puss. "Infection," Curt says, rolling the Devil's shirt up higher. He stops short, palpating the kid's ribs as he does. "Got a couple of broken ribs. A couple here haven't healed properly, probably from his time in the ground."

He takes out of a stethoscope and listens. The prognosis isn't much better than it is for the rest of the Devil. "Air in his chest." Curt grabs a few supplies from his kit. "Hold him down."

Frank does, anticipating a fight. He would fight, getting stabbed with a giant damn needle. But the Devil doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound. He lies there looking like death itself.

Air hisses out of the valve. Curt closes it off. He dons his stethoscope again and listens as the Devil's breathing gets easier. Frank finds his breathing gets easier too.

Curt heaves a sigh. He tears off his stethoscope and reaches for the kid's arms. "Wearing ropes for hand wraps. His knuckles are gonna be shredded." He starts picking at the knots. "I don't even know where to start with him, Frank. Trying to find the part on him that's the most life-threatening is an exercise in futility. It's all gonna kill him. All of it."

Frank shifts between the couch and the kitchen, keyed up. Ants crawling under his skin. He needs to do something. "I'll put on some coffee."

"Make a cup for me."

"Oh, right." He walks off. "Not a real coffee maker." They gotta go cup by cup on a night when Frank needs the whole damn pot.

"You lay off," Curt warns him, going at the ropes on the Devil's arms with a pair of scissors.

Frank starts hitting buttons, earning a groan and hiss from what passes for a coffee machine in Curt's place. He can't stop glancing in the living room at the Devil, a shroud of bruising over a blood-streaked face; a torso only a corpse could envy. Curt's blue-gloved hands working to put back together what's been so eagerly, so thoroughly torn apart.

* * *

Cups of coffee firmly on hand, Frank hovers around the couch. He helps Curt get the kid's shirt off once the ropes are unbound from his forearms. Drapes an ice pack over the kid's swollen face. Then Frank's responsible for scrubbing at the Devil's busted knuckles while Curt devotes his attention to the stab wound.

"What about his head?" Frank asks.

"His head can wait," Curt replies. "Back in the alley, he knew his name, he knew who you were –"

But Frank is already shaking his head. The wrongness of that exchange, of the fight in the church, it's visceral. All of it's visceral. Devil's being twisted up has him all twisted up. "It's not right," he says, staring into the Devil's slack mouth. He turns his gaze back to the ground meat of the kid's knuckles instead and starts wrapping them in bandages. "He's slipping. Got ears like you wouldn't believe, but last night, he lost me. And tonight…he usually knows. He can tell. Got a sixth sense for who's armed, who's not; who's fighting, who's bystanding. You're quick, Curt, but the only reason you got the Devil is 'cuz he let you or he didn't know you were coming."

"He sure as hell didn't let me," Curt says.

They're quiet for a while, working. Frank trying his damnedest not to look at the Devil's ice-packed face, at the Devil's bruised arms. Welts on his forearms from where the rubber bullets hit. Curt finishes with the stab wound, taking a minute to survey the rest of the work lying ahead. He hears Frank's question without being asked this time. "I can't believe a man fights like this. I don't even mean with a stab wound. I've seen guys fight when they shouldn't be able to." He spares a glance for Frank, one Frank dodges as best he can. Curt continues, "But this is beyond. Every punch is ripping him apart: his punches, the other guys' punches. All of it. He's killing himself one fight at a time."

The knot in Frank's stomach tightens. He sets the kid's hand back on the couch, the crisp white bandages on his wounds a stark contrast to the darkness mottling his skin from the inside.

* * *

They crash in the armchairs across from the couch when they're done, drinking their umpteenth cups of coffee. The Devil resting as easy as he can, covered with one of Curt's blankets.

"So what's the deal with this guy, Frank?" Curt asks. "What's the story here?"

"Ain't nothing to tell," Frank says, and he means it. There are no words.

Curt scoffs. "You had a choice tonight: to go after this sniper or him. You chose him. Why?"

Frank regards the Devil across the room. Packed in ice, wrapped in bandages, buried under a blanket. Ravaged Red. No telling where the world's harm ended and his own began. "Meant what I said about him being a dumbass," Frank says, "and a pain in the ass. Came back for him once before. Just before I left town. Not even sure why, really. Call came in over the scanner that shit was going down. Ninjas. Fucking ninjas."

"Ninjas?"

"Yeah. Couldn't believe it. Fucking ninjas." They're laughing lightly at the ridiculousness of it. The sheer comic book craziness of the city and everybody in it.

Frank settles back down into that dark place that makes his guts ball into a fist. The place where Red lives. "I gave him a chance to kill me once. Put a gun in his hand, one round in the chamber. I even…I even had a gun to another guy's head, this piece of shit murderer. The kid had every reason to do it: pull the trigger, take me out, save a life. Hell, he could've killed that piece of shit I was holding. But he took that one shot and got himself loose instead. And I was thinking the whole time no one's that stupid. No one's so fucking stupid they don't take their shot at me. No one's that good, they don't take that shot."

Frank finishes the last of his coffee. It's cold in his mouth, cold in his throat, cold in his stomach. "No one's that good," he says again, desperate for the words to start making sense and stop meaning so much in the same miserable instant.

He glances at Curt, still surprised – always surprised – that there's no judgment in his friend's face. The shit he's done. He doesn't deserve Curt's impassive stare or single-serve coffees or late-night favours, but here they are.

"Thanks for your help," Frank finally says.

"Hey. I'm a doctor. He's hurt," Curt replies.

They sit for a few more minutes in silence. Curt opens his mouth to speak again when the Devil interrupts with a groan. The kid shifts on the couch, his breathing coming in short, determined bursts.

"Last chance to tie him up," Frank says.

"We're not tying him up," Curt insists, rolling his eyes. "And it's weird that you keep suggesting that."

Frank stares at the kid gathering strength across the room. "You brought the Devil into your house."

Curt finishes his coffee, setting the cup on the table to punctuate his sentence. "I brought a man into my house. Cut it out with the theatrics. We got shit to do."

* * *

Happy reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: This fic's definitely going to be six chapters long. Which is fine! I can finish that by Friday!

Four more days to the new season – I'm so excited! I hope you all are as well!

Readers, Dear Readers, I hope you enjoy this update. Cheers!

* * *

Five

Frank expects kicking and punching, clawing and brawling. He plans to meet that shit accordingly, recalling the few places on the kid's body where it's safe to hold his ass down.

But Red disappoints him. When he finally crawls up from under the tranq, the kid makes only one movement: to press himself into he couch, to make himself small. One of his arms comes out from the blanket; Curt catches it, and he sidles his forearm next to Red's for reasons Frank can't fucking fathom. Letting the kid take hold of his bicep like that, taking hold of the kid like that's, it's ridiculous. Devil's gonna break that arm once he realizes he's holding it.

"Easy, easy," Curt urges. Red's eyelids flutter; his mouth opens and shut as he breathes. He's moving his head, tracking sounds, or maybe he's lost them again. He doesn't seem to be aware that he's being spoken to.

Frank helps: "You with us, Red?"

The kid comes into the room fully, eyes wide, a terrified look on his face. The expression vanishes a second later, forging itself into something steely, something inhuman. He grips Curt's arm. "Who are you?"

"You care about my name now?"

It's the Devil smiling, not the kid. "You shot me."

"Yeah, I did." Curt grips him right back. "I'm Curt. What's your name?"

"No," the Devil's doing the talking too, "You don't shoot me, kidnap me, then play nice with me."

Frank rolls his eyes. "His name's Matthew."

Neither Curt nor the Devil spare a glance for him.

"Where am I?" the Devil asks.

"My apartment," Curt says without missing a beat. He leans back slightly, giving Red some space. Even puts the kid's arm back on the couch. "I drained the air out of your chest, cleaned up that stab wound of yours, taped up your ribs. Frank, here, took care of your knuckles."

"You want a thank you?"

Frank seethes. "You listen to a word he said, smartass? He said you were a fucking disaster. We patched you up. The only reason you're breathing right now is thanks to us."

"You shot me off the roof of a building. I'm supposed to say thank you for that?"

"I shot you before someone else could. Someone using live rounds."

The Devil laughs. "Bullshit, Frank."

"Really, Red? Bullshit? Am I bullshitting you, huh? Am I? I sound like I'm lying to you?"

The Devil's façade breaks, revealing that slackened, exhausted face of the man underneath, the one struggling to keep his breath nice and even, the one desperate to stay awake. Curt spares him the effort: "Frank says there was a shooter, there was a shooter."

Frank inches back, vindicated. Finally got the kid's attention, and he's keeping it. No more dealing with the Devil; he wants Murdock. "I let you climb up, your brains would be splattered all over the brickwork. I shot you? Curt shot you?" He scoffs. "We saved you."

Red twists his head away from them both, his bruised face fixed on the back of the couch. "So what happens now? You gonna save me some more?"

"That depends on you," Curt concedes. "I keep telling Frank: it looks like you don't want to be saved."

"I don't need to be saved."

Frank jumps back into the ring: "You're breathing blood. Got air in your chest –"

The Devil comes right back at him: "Oh, what the hell do you care, Frank? Why are you after me?"

"Don't need to be saved, my ass. You're so full of shit."

"You got your life back! A clean record, a fresh start! Why are you risking all that?"

"Why are you!? You got a sniper taking shots at you, and you're running through the city letting him use you for God damn target practice!"

"And why do you give a shit, Frank!?" The Devil's voice cracks. He tries again too soon, "Why do you?! WHY?!" He wheezes, then bursts into a coughing fit. He doubles over on his bruised waist, folding his mangled ribs and stretching his stab wound, and that should be the end of it. God damn, Midland Circle should have been the end of it, but the Devil, the fucking Devil. Whenever he catches his breath, the Devil tries again, and again. His yells strangled and spluttering and breaking as his body betrays him.

"Frank!" Curt tries to hold him back, but there's no holding him back. He's geared up. Heart in a vice grip, guts in a snarl, adrenaline stampeding through him. He gets up close and personal with the Devil, grabbing the kid's shoulder, unfolding him from the ball he's forming as he hacks. "This what you want, Red?" Frank heaves him into a sitting position.

"Not the time," Curt snaps.

Red throws a punch, catching Frank in the face. Doesn't hurt; he barely feels it, but hell if Curt calls the kid out on it. "Time for that, though? Huh?" Frank holds Red upright, putting a hand against his lower back.

"Get off me!" Red shoves at him, still hacking. There's blood on his lips. He gasps wetly. "I mean it – get off me!"

"Frank," Curt says.

"Don't." Frank shakes his head. Curt ain't switching sides. "I called you on this. Me."

" _Frank._ "

Red shoves again. His whole body is wrecked with shivers, and the colour's drained out of his skin, and his eyelids are fluttering. But still, "Get the hell off me."

Frank rises from the couch. Curt takes over, listening to the kid's chest, checking the stab wound.

"Still think you don't need saving?" Curt asks. He presses a rag to the Devil's mouth before he gets an answer, then helps the kid lie back down.

Red starts talking again too soon. "I need to leave." He pulls himself up.

"Like hell you –"

Curt stops him. "Frank."

"No! He's not leaving!" To the Devil, still clawing his way to standing from the couch: "You're not leaving. You lie your broken ass back down."

"Stop, Frank."

"No, I ain't gonna stop. What the hell was the point of bringing him here, you were just gonna let him go out again?"

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?"

Curt nudges his head, points with his eyes. Frank follows his gaze to where the Devil has managed to get up on two very shaky legs. His skin has turned a faint blue-gray colour around the bruises, and his breath is rapid-fire: in-out-in-out-in-out.

The Devil takes a half-step forward. He shifts his weight, his knee falters; he shifts back and collapses onto the couch.

"That's what I'm doing," Curt says. He rejoins the Devil and leaps back into action, getting the kid lying back down. That bluish tinge to Red's torso slowly fades, and he comes back, slowly but surely, now that he's getting enough air.

Then he's on the move again, crawling on the couch. Curt cusses; Frank rushes forward. This is his job, and hell if Red's gonna ruin it for him. Go rushing out there, get himself killed. Get himself killed right here, trying to stand up with a punctured lung and whatever the hell else is wrong with him.

Red's got some of his fight back, and he lets Frank have it. All of it. Every last ounce of strength he's got. Every last ounce of life he's got.

"STOP IT!"

But Frank's already stopped. He's pulled himself back. His hands hang at his sides, stinging as if burnt. His heart crushed in his chest, crumpled up under what feels like a building collapse. "This what you want, Red. This really what you want." It's not a question anymore: it's a statement. He's figured it out.

"You shouldn't have come," is all Red says.

Frank takes another step back. Then another. Then he turns on a heel and he walks out of the room.

* * *

From the hallway, Frank can hear their voices, but the exact words are muffled, barely audible over the groans of the building. Voices are good: means Red's talking. Means he hasn't left. Means Curt still has a chance to win this thing for them, since as good as Curt is at listening, he's real, real good at talking.

The apartment eventually goes quiet. Frank perks up, following the single set of footsteps to the door. Curt emerges. He's wearing his jacket again.

"Shit, did he leave?" Frank charges for the door. "Can't even stand but he fucking –"

Curt blocks his way and makes a point of closing the apartment door. "We talked a bit. He even let me check his ears for him. You were right: saw damage on both. Probably ruptured during the collapse."

Frank turns away from Curt but there's nowhere to go. He searches for a wall to break, but this ain't his building, and he needs his fists. He needs 'em.

He comes back to the conversation, Curt having waited patiently for him. "He agreed to stay the night – one night – in exchange for a full course of antibiotics."

"You bartered with him."

"Yep."

"He can't stand."

"Nope, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying. Neither were you, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I was trying to hold him down."

"You can't help someone who does not want to help themselves," Curt says.

Revulsion brews in his stomach. Frank breathes hard against it, rising like a wave in his chest. "He wants to die."

Curt shakes his head sadly. "If he wanted to die, he would have done it already. He doesn't care if he dies. It's different."

"Not better."

"He's still here." Curt shrugs. "He's still fighting."

"Fighting for the wrong thing. Fighting to get his head blown off."

Curt shrugs. "Fighting to punish the guilty, protect the innocent –"

Ah, shit, this again. "It's not the same," Frank says. "Don't you lump his shit in with mine."

"You keep saying that. Hasn't made it true yet."

"I wasn't running around in long johns."

"Oh, but you cared whether you lived or died?" Curt stares at him head-on, that non-judgmental expression on his face even as his tone cuts Frank right to the core. "You're drawing all these lines, Frank, but the only difference I see between you and that kid my couch is one of you got your ass out of the grave. That kid in there, he's still underground, and until he's ready to claw his way back up, he ain't coming out. That's something else you and him have in common."

Frank doesn't dignify that with a response. He balks at it. His thoughts run wild with refusal: he ain't nothing like the kid, ain't nothing at all. But he doesn't dare say it aloud. He can't say that to Curt. Shouldn't even be thinking about, not about something Curt says.

Curt doesn't call him out any further. He gives one last shrug. "I called in a favour for those antibiotics. I'm gonna go grab 'em. Lock the door behind you. Left some bedding on one of the chairs for you."

"You're leaving me alone with him?"

"I'm leaving you both to get some sleep," Curt says, heading for the stairs. "I did my part. If he leaves at this point, it's on you."

* * *

Bedding's set out on one of the chairs: a blanket and a pillow. Frank walks towards it without sparing a glance at the far side of the room. He doesn't want to see the empty couch just yet, the mangled form of the Devil crawling out through Curt's window into the night.

The kid surprises him again, though. He's lying where Frank left him, blanket tucked up around his shoulders. His eyes open and staring through the ceiling.

Frank doesn't say anything. He drops into the chair and fixes his gaze on the kid's profile, a thousand questions burning on his tongue. Only two reasons a man doesn't crawl out of his own grave: the first is there's shit to do as a dead man. The second is they left something behind. Which is it, Red?

As if the kid can hear the question, he turns away, putting his back to Frank.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Frank goes looking for Red and finds the Devil.

Season 3 speculation.

Author's Notes: We're scant hours away from the new season, and I'm floundering. I have two endings to this story, and while I committed to one, I think the other might be a balm against what's in store for us tomorrow.

So I posted them both. Skip the last section for the next chapter if you need something softer.

Readers, thank you for joining me in what has felt like a very long week before the new season arrives. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Six

Gasping wakes him. Covers rustle, motion abounds. Hands slap against the back, arms, and cushions of Curt's couch in a desperate attempt to discern where they are. Red groans when it's over, his breath coming in shallow bursts despite his attempts to calm himself down.

Frank listens, but they're alone. Curt's still out on his errand. Moonlight peels in through the curtains, giving the room an ambient glow. Squinting, Frank can make out the slope of Red's profile and the top of his chest as it pulsates, eager for breath.

The kid groans again, slamming a fist into the back of the couch in frustration. Frank stops playing possum. "You alright, Red?"

"You should have left me alone," Red snaps. "You had your new start, your new life. You're doing well, Frank. Why would you risk that? Why couldn't you leave me the hell alone?"

Frank lays very, very still. "Karen's worried about you."

"Then why isn't she here?"

The question hangs between them, an unwinnable scenario. Lie and Murdock will challenge him again; tell the truth and Murdock will challenge him on that too. Kid could look at a proven fact and find it wanting, and wanting is what all of Frank's facts are at the moment.

"You came back for me before," Red says.

"Didn't come back for you."

Red laughs, grimacing. He reaches a hand to his side and presses on his stab wound, his breath starting to even out. "You were just in the neighbourhood?"

Frank watches the kid's eyelids creeping shut, the strength easing out of his arm. Jesus, where the hell is Curt? They keep talking like this, Red's gonna make a run for it for sure.

"It would be easier."

Red just leaves that between them, a hook baited in nonspecific pronouns. Fucking lawyers. Frank tries as hard as he can to let the kid continue, but Red's not playing ball tonight. Fine. "What would be easier?"

"You let me finish crawling up the wall of that building. You could've saved yourself a few bullets and a whole lot of trouble, Frank."

The tone Red uses lights a fire in Frank. He isn't the one who fucked up tonight. He isn't the one with a problem. "You like that idea, Red? Thought of you dying tonight?"

"Wouldn't you? I've been nothing but trouble for you. I'm going to continue being nothing but trouble for you."

"So why don't you end it, huh? You wanna die so bad, why are you still here?"

Frank ends up waiting again for an attack that never comes. Red stays down on the couch, his face to the heavens. "I don't know," he says.

The fight would have been better, easier to tolerate, understandable. But Red's raw honesty, the fact that he simply doesn't know, it bothers Frank more than a moral treatise or righteous speech.

"I'm not trying to die," Red says. "I wasn't…trying at Midland Circle. I was trying…" He releases a breath. "It never occurred to me to leave. I was with…" he makes a sound, something like a moan that he captures in his mouth and drags back into his chest. "A guy I used to know, he said you had to grab the world by the throat and never let go. Staying back, staying with…with her, that's what it felt like we were doing. Just…grabbing on and never letting go."

Frank isn't sure who 'her' could be. Isn't sure he wants to know. Won't make understanding Red's decision any easier. "Couldn't have done that above ground?"

Red's laugh is different this time. Friendlier, at least a little bit. He gets the joke for what it is, and that Devil he's playing – or the Devil who plays him – has gone quiet. "I thought I was dead. Or…I don't know what I thought. I wasn't thinking at the time. I don't remember."

He turns his face slightly, the moonlight striking his bruised cheeks, his glassy eyes. "Do you?" Frank grunts for clarification, and Red says, "Do you remember dying?"

Frank shakes his head. "I remember waking up."

Sounds about right for Red too. He's pointing his face back towards the ceiling. "It doesn't seem real anymore."

"What?"

"This. Whatever this is."

"Living?" Frank pushes at the kid. "That what you call what you're doing – living?"

Red's voice sharpens in the dark. "I'm doing what I have to do. What I've always done."

"You haven't always been like this."

"You don't know me."

"You're right. I don't. Thought I did, but whoever the climbed out of that hole, it ain't you. The Devil I know? Was stupid, reckless, pain in the ass –"

"Aw, tell me how you really feel, Frank."

"- but you had limits. Boundaries. You didn't climb back up the side of a building into a sniper's sights."

"I didn't know someone else was firing at me."

"You should've known."

"I was busy getting shot at the time. By you."

"You would've known," Frank continues. "You rest up at all, after that building fell on you?"

A laugh. From the Devil this time. "That's what you think I should do? Rest?"

"Be more useful than running around, getting shot at. Unless getting shot at is the goal."

"I told you," Red struggles to keep that growl out of his voice, "I'm not trying to die."

"Not trying to live."

"You weren't either."

The best response Frank can muster is, "Yeah, well…" He shuffles in the seat, punches at his pillow, tries to get comfortable in a room that no longer seems to fit.

"I'm proud of you, Frank."

Frank closes his eyes. Counts one batch, two batch – but he can hear Red's breathing from across the way, hear the kid's fingertips reaching for his stab wound, the way his body goes taut against the cushions. Frank opens his eyes and takes in the body lying across from him, trying to shake that feeling he's looking at a ghost in the moonlight.

Red doesn't help matters. "You said that you couldn't go back. That there was no hope. Not for guys like you. But you…you're doing it. You're a good man, Frank. I'm proud of you."

The silence stands between them like a brick wall, and every second they hold it, the wider the wall gets, until they may as well be in different buildings. Frank holds the ghost of the kid in his periphery, praying for sleep or death or something, anything, because all he's doing right now is burning. Curt's gonna come back and find a pile of his ashes on the chair. Except, no, this isn't dying. Frank's gonna burn, and Red's gonna burn, both in their own little corners of hell.

Fuck it. Not like this could feel any worse, so Frank just says, "What does that say for you, huh? What does it mean for you?"

He can't bring himself to look directly at the kid's face, but the moonlight paints a clear portrait of sainthood lying on the couch across from him. Red's face is all resolve and righteousness even in Frank's periphery. "It means I still have work to do."

"Then I still have work to do."

Red hisses at him, "I never asked for that."

"I never asked neither," Frank snarls back. There's a fissure running through the lid he's keeping on his anger, and some of the fire is leaking out. He can't stop it. "Everybody's looking for me to explain myself, but there's nothing to say. I went to church because I went to church. I chased you on the rooftops because I chased you across the rooftops. You leave, I leave."

"Why?"

"Because nothing feels real to me neither. I go to work, I go to group. I see Curt and Karen. You're proud of me, but I'm nothing to be proud of. Nothing sticks, Red. Nothing. I keep waiting to wake up, and it's only chasing after your dumbass that I finally do."

The room contracts sharply at that, and all of a sudden, Red feels too close, too damn close, and Frank no longer has the stones to drag himself away. He stays there, cozied up to the Devil in the dark.

Red gasps for breath. "I can't be your reason."

"You're not."

"You can't ask me to stop."

"And what the fuck makes you think you can ask me?" Frank demands.

Red swallows wetly, licking his lips. He opens his mouth to speak again but the door to the apartment unlocks. Frank slams his eyes shut, making his breathing nice and even. He listens as Curt brings a bag of stuff to the counter, and sighs with relief at the sight of the two of them, both pretending to be asleep.

* * *

Dawn comes. Red sleeps, for real this time. Frank watches, his mind a quiet place at last.

A cup of coffee appears in his periphery. Frank glances to find Curt staring at him. No words pass between them, just the coffee, then they both settle into their seats for the show.

"You can't keep him, Frank," Curt says.

"I don't want him," Frank claps back.

Curt rolls his eyes. "You can't save someone –"

"- who doesn't want to be saved. Yeah, I get it."

"Do you?"

Frank doesn't look. He doesn't want Curt to see. But somehow, in not making eye contact, he gives the whole game away. Curt's brow furrows. He turns back to his own coffee, staring at the darkness in the bottom of his mug.

"This really what you want?"

"Not about what I want," Frank says, but that feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that he should have just said yes.

Curt sits there in silent agreement, knowing. "I'll always be here," he says.

"I know." Frank nods.

* * *

They go through the motions: Red waking, Curt making breakfast, Frank drinking his coffee. The kid takes Curt up on the offer of a shower and a change of clothes. He listens patiently and politely to Curt's description of the support group. But then it's high noon, and Red goes to leave, staggering out of the apartment on his own two feet, looking small-as-fuck in borrowed civvies and only marginally less dead than he looked last night.

"See you round, Red," Frank says.

Red gives him the finger.

There's no sign of the Devil that night or the next. He uses the time Red gives him, walking or driving around with Curt. He turns his sights high, up to the buildings, looking at the city through old eyes that feel new again. He ignores the gleaming panes of glass, the balconies, and there it appears, exactly what he's looking for: a construction site. A steel frame, totally open, shaded from view. Perfect place for a nest. Sure enough, Frank finds metal shavings shuffled around. A few ripped playing cards near the ledge where the rifle used to hang.

He goes to group. Says nothing. Heads home and shaves. On the third day He rose again, so Red's coming back that night, and so is he.

Frank goes to the site during the day. Hides out after the crew goes home. He scopes out the place silently, every step up bringing him out of the fugue he didn't even know he was in. Sights become clearer, the air gets crisper. Edges no long fizzle in his eyes. Darkness gives way, his gaze cutting through.

He arrives to nothing out of the ordinary. It's the instincts kicking in again, telling him this is the place. Frank creeps around and sees the cut of black against the brilliance of the cityscape. Sniper rifle. The shooter hovering, scanning for the Devil below.

Frank fires at him. Blood spurts out of the graze on the sniper's knee; would have been a direct hit if the asshole hadn't moved. Shit, he's fast. Rolls out of the way even as Frank lets off another round.

Guy's got a piece. He lines up a shot at Frank's head as fast as Frank lines up a shot at him.

A brick slams into the sniper's hand, throwing his gun to the side. His shot hits one of the pillars, ricocheting. Frank's shot slashes past the guy's face. He doesn't get a chance to fire again. The Devil's on him, disarming him.

Frank grabs him by the neck. "This real for you, Red?"

The kid throws a punch. Frank tosses him to the side and runs, getting a jump on the sniper before the guy can retrieve his gun. The bruise Red left on his chest burns as Frank puts the sniper into a lock, and with the Devil advancing on them in the dark, he knows they're feeling it. That same burn, that same bruise, across the closing distance between them. Frank's tearing Red out of the grave as Red's weight pulls him back in, and hell if that struggle against the other isn't where they both belong.

* * *

Happy reading!


	7. Alternate Ending

In case of emotional turmoil, here's the softer ending.

* * *

They go through the motions: Red waking, Curt making breakfast, Frank drinking his coffee. The kid takes Curt up on the offer of a shower and a change of clothes. He listens patiently and politely to Curt's description of the support group. But then it's high noon, and Red goes to leave, staggering out of the apartment on his own two feet, looking small-as-fuck in borrowed civvies and only marginally less dead than he looked last night.

"See you round, Red," Frank says.

Red gives him the finger.

There's no sign of the Devil that night or the next. He uses the time Red gives him, walking or driving around with Curt. He turns his sights high, up to the buildings, looking at the city through old eyes that feel new again. He ignores the gleaming panes of glass, the balconies, and there it appears, exactly what he's looking for: a construction site. A steel frame, totally open, shaded from view. Perfect place for a nest. Sure enough, Frank finds metal shavings shuffled around. A few ripped playing cards near the ledge where the rifle used to hang.

He goes to group. Last time he's going, so Frank embraces every step. Sees the whole damn city clearly through old eyes that feel brand new. He's crossing the last block when he finally notices the footsteps behind him. A slightly staggered gait. Left leg lagging behind the right. Toe knocking into the base of the streetlamp because the guy can't see.

Frank stops. He turns slightly, finds the oversized coat on the undersized kid looming behind him in the shadows. Thought the kid's costume was dopey, but now he really looks like he's playing dress-up. Kid wearing Dad's clothes.

"You stalking me?" Frank asks.

"Just headed in the same direction, Frank," the kid replies.

Christ, it sound so stupid coming from his mouth, which only makes Frank feel stupid. "This isn't gonna work, Red. You checking up on me. Making sure I walk the line."

"Good thing I'm not here to check up on you."

"What, you're here for group?"

"I was invited." Red staggers towards the building nearby. "Be rude not to show up at least once."

Frank grabs him by the forearm, and Red reacts under the coat, ready to attack, to throw down right here in the street. They could, too. Fight it out. Keep going with what they started and won't ever stop.

But Red's reaching a hand out of the grave, and it would give him what he wants to push him back in the ground. The fighting feels real, is real, but those quiet moments, the ones in the dark, where their souls are bared and broken together, they're real too. A different kind of real.

"It's the next one," Frank says, dragging Red along. "What are you, blind?"

The kid's laugh shifts – Murdock to the Devil: "Fuck off, Frank."

They walk together into the church.

* * *

Happy reading!


End file.
